Metal Gear Liquid: Retribution by Serpent
by Le Dark Wolf
Summary: A re-imaging of Snake's Revenge, the year is 1991 and the stage is set for Operation Desert Storm. But before the liberation of Kuwait can be commenced, FOXHOUND with the help of the SAS must investigate rumors of an Iraqi WMD project.


[Prologue]:SHIROKURO, BLACK AND WHITE

**Some Years Ago/Undisclosed Location/United Kingdom**

He was trembling. It was a struggle just to breathe. His heart had been pounding so hard, that the rest of the body felt numb. There was sweat. His lungs fizzled out, threatening to explode. A trance was slowly overtaking him. A tornado of sharp emotions had wrapped about the psyche, and then proceeded to shatter the soul. The mind had screamed, as if assaulted by some hidden trauma long buried. And then there was nothing.

Everything else then became automatic. It was just as he had been taught. It was just as he had been programmed to do. It was everything that he had ever known. Perhaps it would be everything he would ever know. With a crisp sounding click, the weapon came into his hands. No, it happened so quickly, the weapon merely appeared at his fingertips. Instinctively the safety was flipped off. Trigger discipline would have to suffice. The metal was cold. Nine millimeter, single action, thirteen rounds. The thing was a Browning High Power. There was something else too. A combat knife tucked beneath the barrel of the pistol, gripped with his left hand. Close Quarters. Combat.

He was operational. He was focused. He became the gun.

"Shiro, you are on standby. Prepare yourself." He had heard it before. It was another test. "Commencing exercise in three… two… one…" there was always a test.

The mind commanded him to draw breath.

There had been a sterile room. Men and women dressed in white lab coats. They were always the same, with their thick glasses and haughty attitudes. There were targets. Some made of paper, other made of wood. They too were always the same, portraying enemies that were yet to be fought. Then it all became a blur. Nothing mattered. Only the task at hand, always the task at hand… the task was above all else. Suddenly the iron sights of his weapon came up. Metal aligned about. Multiple shots were fired. Bullet casings hotly ejected. Targets splintered. Targets shattered. Targets broke. It took thirteen seconds. It took thirteen shots. But he had only destroyed twelve targets. He had failed. He had failed yet again. He wanted to scream. Yet he had no voice. Something inside, something valuable, something broke.

A singular white decked male stepped forward, approaching from the left. "Stand down Shirokuro" he had tried to order.

The cold weapon trembled about at the tips of his flushed fingers. It was a wretched existence to live such a life. To be a tool, to be tried, to be a weapon, that would be harshly maintained, never appreciated. He was nothing better than the gun in his hands, and perhaps, he pondered, something worse. The man in the lab coat reached forward, foolishly ever inching towards him. Once they've disarmed him, they would lecture about his failures. They always did, always, always, always, ALWAYS DID. Feelings of frustration were uttered. He wanted to indulge his emotions of weakness. Rage overtook him. Timid fingers touched the boy's hand, slowly attempting to pry the handgun from sickly wet fingers. The weapon remained firmly gripped. The boy held on. And then he went berserk.

In one singular fluid motion, he ensured the male would never breathe again. Crimson fluid spilled out, turning the once glistening white lab coat into a shade of angry red. With one swift slash with a combat knife, the man found himself kneeling before the boy in shock. It happened so fast, so fluidly, that his mind was still trying to comprehend the dire extent of the circumstance in which he was in. The man clutched his throat in vain, and then felled head first, bowing towards the unnatural child.

[]

At first there was a loud blood-curdling scream. Then there was panic, as lab personnel and technicians scrambled for safety. Finally, armed men with submachine guns and electric stun buttons erupted into the room. High above the chaotic commotion, calm and collected, the overseers of this project kept watch.

A 'man' spoke. "Yet again, there is another mishap. Perhaps they had selected the wrong one."

"Do not be alarmed. This is to be… expected" a seductively eloquent voice responded.

"Of course this is to be expected! You've essentially created an incomplete copy."

"If you are referring to his properties, I'll have you know that has nothing to do-"

He'd had cut her off "I don't want to hear it. See to it that our boy 'Shiro' here someday becomes combat operational." Enough time had been wasted on other similar projects.

"He'll be similar to his father, but it is still unreasonable to shape him like this. He is not some weapon. You cannot simply transform him into something such as yourself. It was wrong to revive you, and I will simply not allow you to turn the Boss's will into simple retribution."

"Say what you will doctor. You have already made your mistake. The dice already cast."

"We'll be in touch." There was nothing left to discuss, the austere and seemingly mechanical man proceeded to leave the observation room. She was alone with her other colleague now. The doctor clenched her teeth. That monster had been right. She had already made her mistake. What more would she sacrifice now, for a shared vision of supposed patriots?

"You know, he's right. The boy, he… it… is a weapon."

"One is not born to be a weapon. One must be shaped into a weapon."

"Is that what you truly believe? Or do you still have some qualms about this whole project?"

"…"

"Forget I said anything. Anyways, I've always been meaning to ask, why the name 'Shirokuro'?"

"It was my assistant's idea, due to their unique births. She was the donator after all."

"Shirokuro, it means black and white in Japanese doesn't it? But we have the black one, why white?" said her male colleague as he casually cleaned his glasses with a piece of cloth.

She smiled softly. "That has yet to be seen. We shall see. Besides, like you had said, we were only allowed to keep one, hence Shirokuro. Don't want to waste a cool sounding name."

"Shirokuro, black and white at this stage, for that has yet to be decided. It is quite fitting doctor."

"Thank you, I thought this name to be quite fanciful compared to his original codename."

"His original codename will be forever intertwined with his destiny. Or at least I think so. But for now let's let him keep black and white."

[]

"Hello? Hello! Echo One Zero, this is Thunderhead, please respond. Echo One Zero, come in!"

"This is Echo One Zero, send over." A radio voice had crackled.

"Thunderhead, we have reports of an alfa bravo, sierra-type unit entering your vicinity, over."

"Echo One Zero acknowledges, over."

"Thunderhead, Echo Two Zero has been tracking the target all night. We cannot provide you additional support and you only have one chance at this. Don't screw up. How copy, over?"

"Echo One Zero copies five by five, we'll destroy the target…OUT!"

**The Gulf War**

In the early 1990s, the Republic of Iraq invades and occupies the neighboring state of Kuwait. This in turn effectively allows the Middle Eastern country to establish substantial influence over the oil markets. Under the guise of pan-Arabic nationalism, Kuwait is to be annexed as the 19th province of Iraq. The Western world is largely outraged by this action. In response, the United States initiates weapons deployment. Their aim: to dislodge Iraqi belligerence, and to restore the sovereignty of Kuwait.

[]

**1991/Forward Operating Base, Site Foxtrot Charlie/Skaka, Saudi Arabia**

"You don't have a real name do you?"

It was more of a statement than a question. "I…"

"It's okay. We are similar. You and I…" she blinked "I… we… have no name."

There was an awkward silence.

"No. Yes. Well… not exactly, just call me-"

She finished his sentence. "It's Snake, isn't it?"

The briefing room had been but mere footsteps away. Slithering towards the entrance, the man without a name was nearly there. He was a ghost, invisible to the notice of other, untouchable outside of the 22nd, a silent warrior unbothered… and then she appeared. The raven-haired woman was like a bullet, seen before heard, completely silent before a thunderous arrival. Though this time, there was something odd about her being. She seemed different. Last time they had encountered each other, the woman was largely silent, and a lot less lively. More importantly, that ridiculous outfit was gone, replaced by a sharply fitted desert battle-dress uniform topped with a tanned beret. Their eyes met. The Serpent of War had been caught. She took a step forward, as he took a defensive step back. Her movements were swift, quick, and before he could even respond, a finger had been laid on his right cheek. "You should shave more often, brings out the pretty boy."

He blinked twice refusing to lose himself to those amber colored eyes. Avoiding her friendly gaze and attempting to get away from the woman, it was then he noticed those immortal words. Upon her headgear there was an insignia. 'Who Dares Wins.' There was a winged dagger on it. He gave pause. "I thought women were prohibited from service with Special Forces."

An amused grin had briefly caressed upon her lightly colored lips before vanishing into a seemingly neutral expression.

"To be quite frank, it's rather complicated."

'Snake' as he was referred to by others was in quite a perplexed state. To his knowledge, the United Kingdom's Special Forces program barred women from entering the system. The reasons are many folds, from physical concerns, to old traditions, to psychological issues. But in general, the addition of the female sex to a highly specialized and motivated unit could potentially damage the combat unit's 'esprit de corps'. To simply put, most male soldiers do not quite trust the opposite sex in duties where their very lives are at stake. Nevertheless historically speaking, women had served in the military throughout a vast variety of cultures and countries. Within the four thousand years of recorded human history, women were always involved one way or another with combat. This was not including the fact that the greatest traitor to the United States had been a woman warrior. Snake therefore, took caution.

"Complicated you say?" The Serpent of War found himself inwardly shrugging. Warfare was an art that went beyond combat systems and platforms. The mind and the knowledge required to deploy it as a weapon was infinitely superior. More battles had been won by it, than the sword or the gun. Despite this knowledge, Snake himself had never seen a woman in combat. They seemed so… fragile. Yet here was a mirror, another warrior which radiated of some skill, and in battle fatigues similar to his. He shrugs. Until proven otherwise, she'll still be an inferior warrior in his eyes.

"Hmm" had been the only response to come from her lightly colored lips. With that, she once more took another step forward. His private space was not only invaded, it was now conquered. The Serpent was caught yet again, dumbfounded and surprised at once. She snickered at his discomfort.

Despite his somewhat arrogant attitude, there was also some sense of disconnection with others. Human contact, the type that was non-violent was completely alien to him. In seconds he had his back against the wall. She produced a finger with her right hand, and then proceeded to poke him in the chest hard. "Ha. Well, pleasure meeting you… Snake…" She had wanted to say something else perhaps something confrontational, but then decided last second to remain somewhat professional. "They are waiting for us." Her smile remained. "We best get going."

Promptly and urgently, the raven-haired warrior turned about, disappearing into the room he was originally marching towards. The baffled Snake was still clenching his teeth, as if on the verge of battle. It was then he remembered to inhale. He was a gun. And guns simply did not belong with others. People only served to complicate and infuriate him. Snake closed his eyes and inwardly calmed his nerves. He exhaled. It was then he felt the fingers to his right hand near the tip of the leg holster, lightly gripping the Browning High Power L9A1 tucked away there.

**Weeks Earlier/ Somewhere along the Armman-Baghdad Highway/ Republic of Iraq**

With a mighty roar the Chinook HC2 had shattered the calm night skies. A whirlwind of sand was propelled into the air with its powerful twin bladed rotors. Designed and developed during the mid 60s, the tandem rotor Chinook remained one of the few aircrafts from that era which was still in production despite its age. This was largely due to its multi-role utility. Originally American, it quickly became popular with many militaries across the world, including the British Armed Forces. As the mighty flying mechanical warhorse latched onto the chilly desert floor, armed men quickly began to move about. They had finally reached their destination. It was time to disembark.

The men disembarking from the helicopter were commandos. They were dressed in desert Disruptive Pattern Material (DPM) camouflage, had face protecting shemaghs, covered with tan-colored Mk.6 helmets, strapped with ammunition filled belt kits, and armed with an impressive variety of small arms and explosives. One group of men had literally swung themselves out of the helicopter before the others. They needed to establish a defensive over-watch position to protect the exiting second group and the HC2 Chinook as well. The second group disembarked in a similar fashion to the first group, except they swung to the opposite side of their comrades. This was to protect their flanks. Once the helicopter took off and the team had observed that nothing save the nocturnal critters that roamed the desert night had stirred, were these commando allowed to make their move.

"To me…" the Sergeant of the group had whispered. Quick hand motions were followed, relaying silent orders to the men. They then quickly felled into line formation behind him. With rifles at the ready, covering all possible attack angles, these armed commandos then began to traverse the desert night as one. First they had to find a place in which to hide in and then they had to go about and search for a fiber-optics cable buried somewhere in the sand. They were carrying a lot of equipment, and had an ungodly amount of ground to cover. It was an impossible task, only the likes of Echo One Zero of the 22nd Regiment would have agreed to try.

[]

"Alright lads" the Major had begun a few days ago. That day they were all jam-packed into a hilariously small room at the forward operating base situated in Skaka, Saudi Arabia. Originally, they were to receive a larger room for the briefing. But that had been changed last second due to the Americans.

"The situation is this: the United Kingdom alongside coalition forces are attempting to restore Kuwaiti sovereignty from Iraqi rule. We have attempted to use diplomatic means. But thus far, negotiations have failed. This is where you boys come in."

"Go figure" said someone standing near the back of the room.

"Snake, who's providing Echo their mission briefing, you or me?" The Major snapped.

"Sorry Sir."

"Coalition forces are about to initiate major combat operations on the ground. But before they can be conducted, we must first deal with the possibility of a major retaliatory attack from the Iraqis."

"The SCUD missiles, you mean?" It was Echo One Zero's commander, Sergeant Terry Benson McFarlane. His question was more of a factual statement than anything else. The Sergeant was a demanding gruff no-nonsense leader. Snake could not help but respect the man, though with that said they both harbored a mutual distaste for each other.

"That is correct, Sergeant. The Saddam Hussein regime is attempting to use 'Al Hussein' SCUD missiles to draw Israel into the conflict. If Tel Aviv decides to join the war effort…"

"Then we would be in a world of hurt. No Arab leader would ever fight against another Arab leader alongside such a hated and despised enemy. There is no love lost between the Arabs and the Jews." The Serpent of War seems to have attended a political science class or two.

A brief grin appeared on the Major's face. "That is exactly it, Snake. Yes, there is a bit of politics at play here." the blond soldier boy smiled back, somewhat proud of his little input.

"More so, unlike static targets that are immobile on the battlefield" the Major continued "SCUD platforms cannot be destroyed by air power alone. The threat that SCUD poses to our forces are two folds. First they present a threat to our political unity. Second, these platforms can be armed with WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) to engage our men on the ground."

The Sergeant sighed. It was then time for Echo One Zero's leader to speak. "Satellite technology is not quite spot on. I doubt we have enough human intelligence to inform us of the exact position of such mobile platforms. Wouldn't it be difficult to find these missile trucks in such a large place as a desert, behind enemy lines no less?"

"What kind of a team leader is fearful of a few bothersome Iraqi flies?" Snake had arrogantly retorted his commander.

"Listen Muppet, you didn't make it from selection. You were somehow transferred against all rules and regulations. Besides being new to the regiment, you're not even officially qualified. You don't know shit, so I suggest you shut that bloody trap of yours."

Snake was surprised to hear such an outburst from his commander. He figured that he occasionally got on the Sergeant's nerves. But never like this.

"SIS (Secret Intelligence Services) intelligence has deduced that several SCUD platforms are in operations at the Major Supply Route (MSR) along the Armman-Baghdad Highway" the Major pushed forward with the briefing "these mobile platforms still require the use of a fiber-optics cable to remain in contact with Baghdad for command and control. Thus your mission is two folds. First, find and disable the cables to hamper their line of communication to the SCUD systems. Second, if possible, engage and destroy any SCUD platforms you find."

"Where will we be deploying?" The question came from a dark skinned man at the front.

"Echo One Zero will be deploying about three kilometers from the MSR" the commissioned officer responded, then proceeded to point at a flat-looking area upon a map attached to a rather large blackboard "there will not be many places to hide, so you'll have to be extremely careful and dig your own trenches to avoid detection from enemy patrols."

At once the dozen or so men within the crowed briefing room began to murmur amongst themselves in discontentment. "Lads" the Major called "LADS!" he raised his voice a bit. The room had become quiet once more. "Listen. You men are a part of the 22nd Regiment, Special Air Service, with a history dating back to that of the Second World War. You have been trained, with the best we have, armed with the best we have. If anyone can accomplish this task… you will."

"You are all dismissed!"

[]

For decades, the shemagh has been issued to British soldiers. Their use by military units and formations can be dated back decades. It was also known as a keffiyeh, an Arabic traditional headdress usually worn by Middle Easterners. The shemagh was essentially a piece of squared cloth, used to wrap around the head and face to protect one from the environment. It kept sand and dust away from the face and mouth while providing cover from the dreaded desert sun. Everyone on Echo One Zero wore it. Well, everyone except for the newest rookie on the team.

Snake was young. He was perhaps the youngest member ever in the history of the Special Air Service. Despite technically being a FNG (new member), he was not to be underestimated. Forged to be a weapon since childhood, Snake was capable of carrying any fight through his superior training. War was his destiny. Everything he knew. It was perhaps everything he would ever know…

Thus it should come to no surprise that Snake was quite distant from the rest of his teammates. He made sure to stand apart from the rest of them. For example, his gear would always be slightly different from those of his comrades. Whereas they carried shemaghs, he carried a bandana. On this occasion he carried two. One was worn across the forehead to collect sweat under the ballistic helmet. The other was wrapped to his face, providing protection against the elements. It didn't help that he looked very different from the rest of the team as well. In terms of appearance he was the most striking of them. Many a times, Snake had been told he was quite handsome. His features were sharp yet elegant, masculine yet refined. He was a superior male specimen.

A strong wind had crept up against the sands. Cold winds relentlessly blasted the men of Echo One Zero. Already they were battling the weather. The desert was a different place at night. One did not fear the heat at such a time, one instead would fear hypothermia. Yet the patrol pressed forward. Marching despite the shivering cold, resolved to find a place of refuge before day would break.

"Kid, you're ruining our unit coherency. It's only been a few weeks, and already you want to be different."

Snake had taken a glance over his right shoulder. To no surprise it was his 'battle buddy' Nathaniel Myers, the Wild Weasel. An aging warhorse with a flattop, boastfully loud to the point of mild annoyance, the man lived to make things explode and little else. He was the demolition expert of the patrol. Despite attempting to engage a conversation with the Serpent, Myer had maintained his situational awareness. His weapon at the ready, eyes wandering in search of potential threats, the Weasel nevertheless had a wild smirk on his face, acknowledging Snake's glance towards his direction.

"You're not cold?" Weasel must have found it odd that Snake seemed unfazed by the cold.

The Serpent shrugged. "Not really."

"Very well, you must be super human or something, maybe an experimental weapon shaped like a person. That would explain why the brass had pulled so many strings to transfer you into the regiment."

Snake blinked. He seemed to have wanted to respond, but said nothing.

"I see. Never mind about that. No sense of humor huh? Seems if a topic isn't related to the mission at hand, you're not interested. Is that it?" Once more, the Serpent remained quiet. The man was talking too much, and Snake had nothing interesting to say. "That's fine. The mission is important to me too. In a way, the battlefield is my home. It's what I live for." Snake was being dragged into the conversation. "If I didn't love this bloody job so damn much, I'd stay with the RAF (Royal Air Force) and would have become a Group Captain by right about now."

He tried to ignore him. Snake could feel the man staring into his back for a response. Were others listening in?

"How did you jump from the Air Force to the Army?" Damn it, Snake had to respond.

"I had some help along the way. Who you know is important, to say the least. Not saying I relied on any of these clutches though. I'd passed selection with flying colors. I mauled most of my class, setting the record for scaling and descending from Pen Y Fan. Escape and evasion was more or less a walk in the park as well. Perhaps you're too young to know, I'm quite a legend in the community."

The Serpent had little use for the man's bragging, but decided to be pleasant instead of confrontational. So he played along. "What did you do in the Air Force?"

"I flew Wild Weasel as a fighter pilot of sorts. I partook in SEAD operations, the Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses, hence why others call me the Wild Weasel. Last time I was in combat was over the Falklands."

"So you earned the nickname flying a wild weasel mission?"

"Something like that, I'll you another time." Myer was quick to change the subject. "Anyways, Snake. How did you earn that name? Or was it given at birth?"

"I…" The Serpent winced. It was something he did not want to discuss.

"It's neither a nickname nor your real name, eh? You're complicated. At least make up a story."

"I…" There were images of violence playing about within Snake's head. Targets splintered. Targets shattered. Targets broke. Blood was spilled. People died. Weapons were fired. Again and again, they were played.

"Geez kid, one minute you're all gung-ho with lots to say, the next minute you're like an anti-social and silent. You need to talk more and bond with the others, or else you're bad for morale. That'll make you a poor soldier, so stop being such an inept sod. You hear, Snake?"

The comment had startled something deep in the recesses of Snake's mind. Somewhere beyond the conscious psyche, a distant memory came alive. 'You will never be as good of a soldier as him. Fate has bounded you to this existence. Yet war will haunt you, at every path. Embrace your calling, your destiny.' A breath of air fizzled out violently from his lungs. Then a furious look crept upon the young Serpent's face.

Myers knew he triggered something. "Hey kid, relax. It was just some friendly advice. Need to stop being such an inept little bastard. I don't mean anything by it." This time Snake had turned around. Myers was either oblivious or being an asshole. "You can't take me, Snake. So stop trying to act all tough. I'm trying to get you to work better with the team. So take my friendly advice, or be ready to take an unfriendly punch to the face." By now, the whole patrol had been stalled by the two. At this rate, a fight would break out.

"Knock it off Snake! We have a task at hand. I'm sick of your antics, start getting your shit together. You too Weasel." It was McFarlane.

The patrol resumed, with Snake marching in front of Weasel. His hands had been shaking, not due to the weather, but from a seething rage building inside him. "I did not earn my name" he whispered to no one in particular. "It was forced upon me…"

[]

High-Tech Special Forces Unit FOXHOUND had always deployed experimental equipment on the battlefield, many of which were often outlandish or unproven. The idea is that the spec-ops outfit had the most advanced technologies at their disposal. The latest design for the Type-VENUS (Type-V) Sneaking Suit was no different. Designed to be worn by Special Forces operators during espionage missions, the suit was skin clingingly tight, preventing unnecessary movement or noise from the user. Despite the fact that Type-V suit could trace its origins back to the DACQC uniform worn by FOXHOUND's predecessor unit, its latest incarnation looked radically different. Or rather to be more precise, it looked ridiculous.

The suit had just finished preliminary tests when the mission was scrapped together. It was still colored red for testing purposes. The color was a small matter compared to how it looked. The uniform was essentially a one-piece catsuit designed for a female operative. There were folds where Kevlar was woven in with the fabric, making the whole uniform appear like a fancy cocktail dress. Further restraints were in place to facilitate faster movement and to improve performance through the tightening of the torso in certain places. On top of this were body monitoring devices. With the devices and restraints, the suit looked as if it had a corset layered upon it. The suit itself ended in a skirt of sorts exposing her thighs. In theory this would allow maximum leg movement. In practice the advances were minimal compared to the dignity lost. To add upon this were the leggings made of the same Kevlar-woven material, ending with a type of high-tech combat boots which clamped onto the legs. It was a mechanical piece and a similar but larger device had also been mounted on her shoulders, but connected to the arms. These were not prosthetics, but a miniature exoskeleton-type of device designed by Tokugawa Heavy Industries to enhance the strength of a user and to deal with firearm recoil. A type of what can only be called 'shuriken' launchers were also hidden on the suit's sleeves. Finally, a military harness alongside ammo pouches, a dump bag, and a tactical leg holster were added upon the Type-V suit. None of these additions covered the skin-tight breast area of the suit, where the Kevlar-woven material seemed to only enhance the size of the wearer's bosoms.

It looked like some sort of militarized fetish suit that belonged in a sex film. Yet 'she' was wearing it. Well, 'she' was physically female. With raven-dark ebony hair, delicate moon-graced features, and a beautiful face, the FOXHOUND operative looked like a devilishly thorny rose. But years of experimentation on her mind had created two distinct personas within the same female body. One was the original army girl; the other… was something else all together. It was male and contradictory to all rational understanding was even older than her body. It was mysterious, charismatic, and powerful. A resolved reckoning focused upon the task at hand. Currently, the 'male' psyche was on the surface. The female personal which had originally owned the body went underneath, forced to rest somewhere deep within the mind.

She sat on railings of the MH-6 Little Bird. The light observation helicopter, often used by Special Forces for transportation, traversed the desert night skies at tremendous speeds. Despite the winds, she sat nonchalantly at the edges of the aircraft, arms wrapped about a large rifle as if it were some long lost lover. The weapon seemed like a Soviet Dragunov SVD squad support sniper rifle, but could very well been one of its many variants.

"How you doing, love?" the Pilot had shouted over his headset and helicopter helmet. Usually MH-6 Little Birds were crewed with two pilots. One was to fly the aircraft while the other manned its armaments. In this case the Little Bird had been armed with two GAU-19s that spitted 12.7mm rounds. Pilot was such a good pilot that he had no need for a co-pilot. He could fly the thing all by himself. Besides being a Chief Warrant Officer, there were no other labels of identification. All that was really known about him was that he had worked with black-ops for a long time. "Listen babe… or whatever you want to be. After we get this shit done, how about I let you see my viper, and teach you some of my black arts?" Also, he was an asshole. The dark haired woman turned about to glare at him from the corners of her eyes. Pilot was amused.

"Black Arts Viper is it? Almost like you have two codenames in one?" The airman continued. "Why is that?" The woman caresses her rifle and mutters a silent phase before adjusting her scope a bit. She continued her weapons check, deciding to disregard him. It was then when a few lights began to flicker within the MH-6. Pilot quickly resumed his role, checking with the onboard GPS system to see if they were on schedule.

The helicopter's communication instrument began to blaze alive. "Pilot" headquarters had summoned. The speaker on the other side never bothered with formalities or pleasantries. Here was a stern speaker, austere, commanding, by the book, a nearly machine-like presence. Here, was the Mission Commander.

"Pilot acknowledges, go ahead Overlord."

"Overlord requests SITREP (Situation Report) on mission status."

"We are on task with the current reconnaissance task."

"What about the secondary objective?"

"We had been operating near the vicinity of the targeted patrol. Observation cameras had relayed that they are fine and dandy. We'll come around and check up on them soon enough. With the information relayed, they'll encounter enemy resistance soon enough. That should draw some attention away from the task at hand. In my opinion sir, we should have just sent the Green Berets. These SAS guys are overrated. No offense Black Arts, I know you're a hard ass winged dagger and shit, but you're something the fuck else all together."

The Pilot took his eyes off the instruments to wink at the crimson clad woman, but found her silent and distant, back still against him.

"Keep us posted, Pilot. Overlord is out."

[]

At night the SAS patrol would scour the desert for both those mobile SCUD launchers and the fabled hidden cables. During the day they would bunker down and hide themselves from both the desert sun and the patrolling Iraqi enemy. This was standard operating procedure. Special Forces worked best at night, where the darkness could conceal their activities. Yet there had been neither signs of the elusive mechanized quarry nor that hidden line of communications that was buried in the sands. Thus far, they have only encountered dehydration, hypothermia, and fatigue. Like nomads forced to wander they trekked the desert, they resolved to press on with the mission.

The situation had been looking grim when the team was preparing for another day under the repressive sun. It was then that the communications expert a fellow named Price received a call from headquarters via the PRC 319 high frequency patrol radio. Another patrol team had encountered one of the SCUD platforms. According to the information relayed, it was supported by a light patrol and was traveling down the MSR, entering their Area of Operations (AO).

Myers could not help himself but shiver inwardly in glee. This meant that his expertise would come to play. It was time again to prove why he was the team's explosive expert. He also secretly hoped the enemy brought in some armored vehicles. The Iraqis had imported a lot of Soviet equipment. Some of which were quite modern. It was the perfect chance to test his skills. Not to say that the Weasel merely enjoyed killing. He fucking loved killing people. But he did it for a patriotic reason, or at least that was what he occasionally told himself. Myers wasn't white, but he had some love for the country of his birth. But patriotism was not the force which drove him. Superiority was.

"Thunderhead, Echo Two Zero has been tracking the target all night. We cannot provide you additional support and you only have one chance at this. Don't screw up. How copy, over?"

"Echo One Zero copies five by five, we'll destroy the target…OUT!"

McFarlane got off the horn with Thunderhead. With a quiet nod, the Sergeant thanks the communication expert for his work with the radio. He then rallies the men. Unlike Myers, the Sergeant was a good man. Despite his attitude towards Snake, he genuinely cared for the well being of the troops under his command. The reason for his harshness towards the rookie was that he was unconfident with his ability to bring the boy back from the mission alive. The Sergeant was nevertheless beloved by his men. He used a combination of hard ass professionalism and easy going comradely to win influence over them. Even Weasel, whom occasionally loathed being ordered about, respected the man.

Using both the topographic information that was issued for this mission and what they've encountered thus far, the Sergeant begins to scratch a pretty accurate map of their surroundings into the sand. As the men huddled about, McFarlane begins to reveal his plan of attack.

"Alright, let's get this started with. Fireteam One will keep watch over the main road right here. The trenches we dug last night should suffice." Then he pointed at a crease in the map. "Fireteam Two will be stationed at that dried riverbed we found. This will allow Team Two to cover Team One if things get too hot. The combat spread should also allow maximum use of our weapons." The Sergeants grunts a bit. "Including our AT (Anti-Tank) weaponry. Thunderhead informs us that the SCUD entering our AO was escorted. The other patrol team believed that they were linking up with a larger group, perhaps something mechanized. Provided that we dig in, retain our element of surprise, we should be able to get through this fight with no problems."

Weasel scratched a bit of stubble upon his chin, seemingly lost in thought. "Brilliant and all, but may I?" The older man had a knack for strategy, but was uninterested in the affairs of leadership. He then traced something on the representation of the main road. "Something I've learned in Palestine."

McFarlane cocks an eyebrow. "Well, I was about to say that we'll mine the roads as well."

"Negative sir, that is not what I am about to demonstrate." Myers digs an index finger into the area which represents the main road. "We can use the AT mines. I'm certain the MK7s will punch a hole in the armored vehicles. But I'm also certain they could be spotted easily, even with camouflage they'll stick out like a sore thumb. There aren't many ways we can hide those things inconspicuously on the road. Instead I'm advocating that we use PE4s (a type of plastic explosive that is similar to C4) in conjunction with the MK7s to produce a sort of roadside bomb. It would be something we can hide next to the road, instead of on it. That way, we can knock out the vehicles and kill scores of foot mobiles. Whatever survives, we'll pick off" his wild smirk omnipresent.

"Hmm" said the Sergeant. "That might work, Weasel."

"The poor bastards won't know what hit them, sir."

With the plan more or less settled, it was time to get to work. They had to set the improvised explosive trap in place and then get back into position. "We don't have an exact estimation of their arrival, so we best get started."

[]

Sediment had shifted under pressure as a cloaked figure crawled about on the Iraqi desert. Sweat and dirt were 'her' omnipotent companions. They persistently reminded her of the trials passed, and the hardships still to be encountered. Yet the objective was nearly at hand. She began to scan her surroundings. There were a few minuscule ditch-like creations in the sand, spots of dried out plantation, and a few haphazardly constructed roads. While one would assume that there was nothing of interest nearby, the wrist mounted global positioning device maintained otherwise. This was further reinforced by the increased number of enemy patrols in the area. A kilometer or so more of slithering about the stingingly burning surface, and the raven-haired woman's destination would be reached.

She had flicked a strand of darkly colored hair from her face, bothered at the amount of sweat being generated by it. Black Arts was not amused. Despite being 'male' in psyche, the persona was stuck in a female body. That included dealing with 'female' hair. Certainly Black Arts could have coercively dealt with the issue by simply shaving 'herself' bald. But that would have created a serious type of drama that was best to be avoided. It was a logical choice deduced from a game theory perspective applied to individuals. Or at least that what Black Arts thought.

A harsh dried cough suddenly jolted the raven-haired woman. She took a sip from the camelback, careful in conserving the amount of liquid consumed.

Her wretched existence could have been far worst if not for the stealth device. Without it, the reconnaissance mission would have failed hours ago. To be certain, FOXHOUND was an eccentric organization. But they were not foolishly inept. FOXHOUND was not about to risk the life of an operator due to such a simple oversight as improper camouflage. Without the device, Black Arts would have stuck out like a sore thumb. The crimson outfit did nothing to help her blend in with the sandy environment. Fortunately, her suit had also been integrated with 'Stealth Camouflage' right before the mission. It was a system of electronic devices which essentially rendered Black Arts invisible to the naked eye. The system itself was surprisingly nothing revolutionary. Prototype technology of this sort had been around since the late 60s in the Soviet R&D department. The technology was seldom reliable then and not much better now. It was not a soldier-proof system. And as the raven-haired woman can attest, it also had a bad habit of shutting down at the worst of moments.

There was a foot patrol rapidly advancing towards her position. She deduced that they were Republican Guard from the olive uniforms, large chest webbing, white straps, and orange arm patches they proudly wore. The issue at hand was a matter of evasion. She simply could not be discovered. It was one thing for an Iraqi patrol to lose themselves to the desert, quite another for one to become a prisoner of war. And despite the fact Black Arts was a male persona, the body remained quite female. Being captured offered an additional fate that was potentially quite worst than death. Furthermore, being discovered would compromise the whole operation at hand. At this rate, she could not simply get up on her feet to circle around the enemy. Telltale footprints in the sand would have most certainly lead to complications. Even if she crawled quickly enough, a trail would still be left for the enemy to find and track. In this situation, it was best just to remain as she was. Black Arts hugged the ground, hoping that the patrol would simply walk on by. It was now a question of patience.

[]

"CONTACT RIGHT-"

The sky was falling. Automated bursts of fire poured forth towards them. Burning hot sand and burnt pieces of flesh twirled about in the air. What had originally been their radioman was thrown about thirty meters from the trench. His shattered body was now a grinded crimson paste cooking under the repressive desert heat. There was no breathing, only ringing ears, and a rising dread. Dust and smoke were scattered about. Visibility was poor. Something rumbled forward with a screech. A sound of thunder was approaching. There was panic. Then it laughed with the machine gun.

Snake hugged the dirt once more.

When the SCUD came into view with a small security detail, the men of Echo One Zero thought they've already won the day. With a combination of explosives, the missile launching vehicle was blown into smithereens. Its escort was then slaughtered to the last man. It was a merciless ambush. War was an uncompromising symphony. The SAS patrol prided themselves as a master orchestra. Sheer euphoric joy had swept the patrol. They thought themselves valiant heroes whom vanquished an unworthy foe.

Then the real enemy had appeared. Perhaps they were reinforcements to the convoy. Perhaps they so happened upon the ambush. Whatever the case, it was now irrelevant. Hectic ordered were issued. The enemy deployed smoke to cover their advance. Team Two was flanked. Sporadic gunfire shattered the morning clam. The first team tried to save their comrades, unloading round after round towards a shrouded unseen foe. But the fog of war had been thick and their enemy possessed keener vision. Something thermal based. Myers had shot a LAW (Light Anti-tank Weapon) at them. It must have missed badly for there was no audible evidence of effect. The enemy howled with delight. A joyous scream of bullets smashed towards the pinned SAS patrol. They were using some sort of high explosive incendiary round. Where the enemy had struck, men literally ceased to exist.

Snake watched as his comrades were not merely killed. They were mauled into nothingness. All that remained as proof they had once existed was a light splash of red gore upon the Iraqi desert.

It was clearer now. They were being assaulted by a mechanized patrol. A cloud of smoke parted and seemingly out of nowhere, an armored personnel carrier appeared. The wheeled monstrosity rushed forward, having had smashed its way into the trench itself. Under normal circumstances, this would have been sheer suicide. A combination of blind luck, propelled perhaps by sub par training and stupidity allowed the vehicle to charge into the makeshift trench. Where once a soldier was to position himself for cover was now stuck oversized wheels. It was a hellish scene. And underneath that was a squished Englishman squealing for his mum.

"Damn!"

On instinct he returned fire. The 7.62 rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the armored monster's metal plating. When the dried-out German battle rifle finally ranged empty with a click, Snake cursed. Despite being an outcast, a mistake, a Serpent of War, he had wanted to save that man. It was futile. Instead of making the steel beast budge in any constructive way, Snake had instead caused a mounted machine gun turret to take note of him. The goddamn thing was a Krupnokaliberniy Pulemyot Vladimirova (KPV). Snake had seen in action before, last time on an anti-aircraft system. It was game over. He wasn't about to survive a shot from something that heavy. The mission was about to become a huge failure. A scream followed.

"SNAKE!"

It was McFarlane. The Sergeant was still alive. Something powerful struck the armored personnel carrier. The thing seemed to have screamed in rage as metal was torn asunder by an explosive projectile. It screeched to a halt, smoke bleeding from its engines in every which way. McFarlane had shot a M72 LAW at the thing. It struck the rear of the vehicle, perhaps causing some sort of internal fire. Snake was surprised it did damage at all. The armored personnel carrier was fairly modern. It was a Soviet BTR-70, perhaps 80, if he were not mistaken. Pressing questions remained. Was it disabled? Was its crew in disarray? As if in response, the APC answers with a turn of its thunderous KPV. Shots were fired. A body was cut in half. The Sergeant disappears. McFarlane was gone.

Kicking about to get away from the vehicle, Snake literally begins to crawl on his back towards safety. There was no refuge for the likes of him. With his back against dirt, he was trapped. There was nowhere else to hide. Snake slowly breathed out. He then flicks out the spent magazine of his G3 rifle and proceeds to reload it. After eighteen long years, perhaps now after this, he could finally rest.

Author's Note:

_It took like a month to write this. If you guys want more, you must encourage me by leaving a review!_


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